


Inferno

by Parzaval11235



Category: Newsies, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: I apologize if the tags are a bit wonky, I'm posting for the actual author and not familiar with this fandom, M/M, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parzaval11235/pseuds/Parzaval11235
Summary: A danger is arriving in New York, something more terrifying and deadly than anything ever seen. And it's up to a bunch of kids to stop it before it's too late. The only thing is - one of them has the power to wield fire itself.A Newsies Superhero AU, focusing around the Brooklyn Newsies and ensemble characters





	1. Prologue

There were four things that night that split the quiet into deadly fractures, each more malicious than the last. None of these sounds were pleasant, such as the soft crawling of night traffic heard from a rooftop in manhattan, or the fluttering of a newspaper’s pages, or the clinking of plates and glasses in a well-lit diner. No, tonight’s soundtrack would feature none of these things. 

 

Tonight was reserved for the cold orchestrations of fear.

  
  
  
  


The first of these sounds was the rumbling of engines - engines, which belonged to two large trucks, their cargo weighing down upon the chassis as these vehicles lumbered along an unlit road between formidable stacks of metal containers. Cranes overhead loomed like skeletal trees, exerting their high-flung dominance over the labyrinth of steel that littered the port yard.

 

A distinction must be made here. A yard, usually connotes a grassy expanse, accompanying one’s home. It is a place for playing with dogs, for organizing games derived from pure imagination, for sitting and watching stars as small insects lazily travel from plant to plant.

 

This “yard” was nothing of the sort. Expanses of concrete illuminated by the occasional lamp overhead, with the aforementioned cargo containers forming impenetrable walls, stacked high in foreboding cliffs, almost reminiscent of rows of headstones, the containers’ labels like an obituary. “ _ Here lies a shipment delivered on the 21st of August, from an overseas company” _ . This is a yard few would want accompanying their home. And rather than insects, we follow these two trucks, who will inevitably bring us to our next three sounds.

  
  


These trucks stretched on as they pulled to a stop in an open expanse, perpendicular to an array of black cars which perched in the dark, ready to pounce.

  
  
  


The second of these sounds was the opening of a car door, and then the crisp tapping of expensive shoes on concrete as a man, shrouded in darkness, exited his car and walked towards the trucks, whose drivers had gotten out. It was not a fast walk, there was no urgency. But the man carried with him a sense of malice that seemed to draw the black cloths of night even closer to him, until his precisely tailored suit had no defined beginning or end.

  
  


The third of these sounds was a voice, grating and solid, from the man in black.

 

“Добрый вечер, коллеги,” said the man, which here is russian for ‘Good evening, my associates’. This is a term which one would usually hear in a lighthearted tone of voice, as it is wishing a good evening to people the speaker is familiar with. But there was no friendship in this greeting.

 

The truck drivers said nothing, instead, led the man in black to the backs of each truck. This was standard procedure. It had not changed, it would not change. And the two drivers knew to never try anything different. Or the barrels pointed at their heads from hidden marksmen would quickly amend this change in routine.

  
  


The container’s back door was approached, each driver unlocking and turning a grand handle near the base of each, pulling the doors open to reveal the container’s contents - a hulking mass of cases. Each individually marked and sealed. Each more expensive and deadly than one would ever have previously imagined.

 

And each amounted to less total cases than the man in black had been promised.

  
  


His expression, which had at first been stony and rigid, hardened into a cold rage as he marched past the drivers and to the front of the trucks, where another man was now standing. Not standard procedure.

 

This new man spoke as the man in black approached him.

 

“Произошла смена планов. Отгрузка была сокращена.” this man said. To those reading, his sentence translates as such: ‘There has been a change of plans. The shipment needed to be downsized’. 

 

The man in black’s eyes rooted the other man in place with sheer unyielding fury. “Я не буду платить за это. Мы заключили сделку.” - ‘I will not pay for this. We had a deal’. 

 

The man with his back to the truck looked on, unbothered. “Я посланник. Мы не могли предоставить полную отгрузку, или вся операция была бы обнаружена” - ‘I am the messenger. We could not provide the full shipment, or the whole operation would have been discovered’.

 

The man in black spat at the other man’s shoes. 

 

“If you are Stroyev’s messenger,” the man in black said, reaching into his fine jacket and pulling out a silver pistol which glinted under the slivers of moonlight, pointing the barrel at the other man. “Then tell him Snyder sends his regards.”

 

The barrel flashed with a resounding  _ crack _ , followed soon after by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

  
  


And this, dear reader, was the fourth and final sound.

 


	2. Chapter I

“BANG! Totally dead, one-hit kill!”

 

“God  _ damnit _ , Bart, at least gimme a chance to get an airdrop!” A short boy shouted, furiously handling a game controller as the view on a screen moved in sync with the movement of small joysticks, jumping over low barriers, a gun’s scope fixating around corners in search of the slightest twitch.

 

“Hey, Shiner, get on the roof and back my position. I’ve got a plan.”

 

“Sure thing Myron.”

 

“No ganging up!”

  
  


The three boys currently engaged in heated warfare were Shiner, Myron, and Bart. Shiner, of course, wasn’t the real name of the youngest boy, but then again, Myron and Bart - as well as Finn - were the only boys in the room who  _ did  _ go by their real names - for the most part. All the Brooklyn boys went by nicknames. They were almost like an unofficial gang that managed their area of New York.   
  
Spot was the unofficial leader. Everyone looked up to him - well, more like down, but in a metaphorical sense they looked up to him. He brought them all together, and what he lacked in height he made up for in ferocity and determination. Myron was the first one that Spot had befriended, and a short, feisty redhead called Carrots not long afterwards.

 

Rover, York, Shiner, Bart, and Finn joined the group later. York was a young-looking fellow with a Jersey accent who could glare a boulder into submission. He wasn’t always nicknamed York, but adopted the name himself when he first left his original home. He had a particular dislike for anyone who tried to challenge his masculinity. 

 

Rover was a softer more brainy guy. Soft was less of a statement about his physical affluence and more a statement about his personality. He was also the only one of the boys who could keep his pocket change after a night with “Racetrack” Higgins. 

 

Shiner was the real kid of the group, probably only around twelve years old. Maybe. He got his nickname after an alley fight with three older boys that left him with only a black eye and chipped tooth, and the other boys scrambling to get away. He was almost always grubby, and when he did get the chance, he could go shot for shot with anyone who dared challenge him. 

 

Carrots was also a natural leader, and it was believed by the whole group that if necessary, Carrots would lead the Brooklyn boys in Spot’s place. He and Finn, a much taller boy with dark hair and bright eyes, were both in a relationship together, and they weren’t afraid to show it. They also weren’t afraid to fight someone to defend it.

 

They were a group because Spot trusted them, and they trusted each other. They were a family, regardless of relation or hardship. Brooklyn brothers forever.

  
  


Of course, this didn’t quite translate into games in Rover’s basement. Kinship meant nothing when a free-for-all deathmatch was on the X-Box. Or, in the cases of Finn, Carrots, Rover, and York, an intense game of Blackjack on the other end of the pool table. 

  
  
  


Spot was leaning back in a chair by the wall, lazily scrolling through a busted up phone with his feet propped up on the pool table, rolling the white cue ball back and forth between his heels. A chirp from his notifications signified a message - and only 9 people had the number.

 

Spot frowned at his phone screen, scanning the message and reading it to the group of boys, who had immediately stopped to listen. “Fly’s got word on the Rats - says they’se just showed up in the block around Scoretti’s Subs. At least 4 of ‘em.”

  
  


He wasn’t of course, talking about an insect noticing a group of rodents - Fly was a scouting medium, she kept tabs on the movements and locations of various groups around New York along with multiple other kids. People rarely interacted with them, they were never noticed, never trifled with. A neutral party, unless you knew which ways to direct bribes. If you wanted to know where Jack Kelly was at any given moment, even in the dead of night, they would know. Of course, he wasn’t hard to find if you went and stood on a roof.

 

The Rats was a gang that seemed to have little problem with breaking the law, even less of a problem with being in the wrong territory. They were a vicious bunch. Their leader was called “Biter” - rumor has it that he bit a man’s ear off and sharpened his teeth to intimidate anyone who saw him. 

 

Spot couldn’t wait to punch them in.

  
  


“Scoretti’s Subs?” York said, absentmindedly rubbing his chin, which had sprouted a few dirty blond hairs recently. He surveyed the two cards in his hand and the two in front of him. “What do they want?” 

 

Spot double-checked the message. No mention of intention, Fly wouldn’t have been able to hear what they were saying, but seeing them in the area was enough to set off a few mental alarms.

 

“Could be nothing. Could be them trying to get attention,” Spot said. “Either way, I’m heading over there. I like Scoretti’s, I don’t want their nasty hands all over my sandwiches.”

  
  


The boys at the pool table set down their cards, the game on the xbox was paused.

 

“I’ll start up Shitweel.” Rover said, fishing out his keys. “Shitwheel” was the name of Rover’s car, affectionately named for the fact that the car was fairly substandard.   
  
“I still can’t believe you named your car  _ Shitwheel _ ,” Bart said incredulously.

 

“I still can’t believe that you’re not wearing pants,” Rover retorted, mocking Bart, which effectively shut him up. Bart was in fact lacking pants at the moment, which was a common habit of his whenever he was in the Basement. Xbox on, pants off. Rover found them discarded near the stairs, tossing them in Bart’s general direction.

 

The boys filed out quickly along with Rover, Myron making to head up the stairs with them, but Spot’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  
  


“I’m stopping by the villa first,” Spot said. “Tell Rover we’ll meet them there.”

 

Myron quickly turned to look at him. “You really think you’ll need it?” He asked, but the shorter Italian boy’s face was gravely serious.

 

“I don’t like the Rats. More than just a suspicion, you know? They’re vicious.”

 

The villa wasn’t a real villa, it was a small house just a few streets away on the way to Scoretti’s, where Spot’s grandmother lived. Only Myron and Carrots knew of it's location and relation to Spot, which is how Spot liked it. 

 

And the mysterious “it” that Spot needed was a big deal. If Spot was nervous enough to want it, it meant he had some gut feeling that he would need it.

  
  
  


Myron and Spot used back alleys to cut their way up north to the villa, eventually coming upon a small little street with cozy homes and corners occupied by stands of fresh fruit and meats. They crossed over to a white house with a little step up to the inset door that Spot was currently unlocking.

 

The interior of the house wasn’t cramped necessarily, but it certainly wasn’t roomy. To the right was a living room area that doubled as a dining room most of the time, because the actual table was often piled with herbs and jarred foods and breads. Light from the window warmed the front of the house as it filtered through, and in a patch of light by the coffee table a large, lazy cat lay purring, perking up it's ears as the boys entered. 

 

“Hey Beebles,” Myron said to the stretching cat, his greeting returned by a  _ meow _ .

 

“Nonna?” Spot called, looking about for his grandmother but finding her gone. “She must be out for the afternoon. You know how she hates having to sit around like an old lady.”

 

He went over to a cabinet in the corner of the living room, bending down and feeling around underneath. His hand stopped, finding a small catch in the wood, and pulling it down to reveal a hidden drawer from which he withdrew a slim revolver and a small case of bullets.

 

He spun the barrel, satisfied when he found that it was fully loaded with only six bullets. He took one more from the revolver, giving this single bullet extra to Myron.

 

“One for luck.”

 

Spot was a firm believer in refraining from the use of guns. Each Brooklyn boy that he had found and taken in over the years - he trained with them in hand-to-hand combat, how to properly hold, fight with, and throw knives, the ins and outs of Brooklyn and how to get the slip on someone - but using guns was a different matter.

  
  


With each boy he brought them to an abandoned dock at night, far away from homes, with the revolver and two bullets.

 

_ ‘One’,  _ he would say,  _ ‘So I can show you. And another so you can feel what it’s like to control a fatal weapon.’ _

 

Spot would then lift the revolver, holding the grip with both hands, his arms steady and knees bent. The revolver would then  _ crack  _ with a noise unlike those the boys had ever heard before, at least, not that close. And then, the dull pinging of the bullet hitting the side of an old shed and lodging into the wood.

 

He’d then load the second bullet and hand it over.

 

_ ‘What you’re going to do now Myron, is the same stance I just did. And when you’re ready, you fire.’ _

 

All those years ago, standing on a dock near midnight, Myron had felt the weight of the revolver in his hands, and even though it was such an easy process - aim, pull the hammer back, pull the trigger - he stood there frozen.

 

_ Aim, hammer, pull. Still his hands wouldn’t do it. Aim, hammer, pull. _

 

_ Myron stood there, furious at himself for not being able to do it, wrenching control over himself and tightening his fingers. He squeezed the trigger suddenly, the revolver kicking slightly in his hands as the bullet rocketed from the barrel and into the wall. _

 

_ A bullet which could destroy someone. _

  
  
  


Spot tucked the revolver into his pants, securing it with the strap of his suspenders so it was concealed, but accessible.

 

“Let’s go.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Spot and Myron arrived shortly after the other boys reached Scoretti’s in Rover’s car, at first confused as to why the boys were all standing around the shop front, until they came closer.

 

The large window typically overshadowed by the red and white canopy that hung above the shop was splintered and smashed, shards of glass and dust glittering out over the sidewalk. The shop inside was darkened, in the middle of the day, and chairs and tables were overturned.

 

Bullet holes riddled the glass where it wasn’t broken.   
  
  
Spot’s jaw clenched as he surveyed the scene. It wasn’t like anything they’d seen - even from the Rats. This was a new level of violence, even for them.

 

Carrots saw the boys’ apprehension, clearing his throat. 

 

“Okay. We’ll split up,” Carrots said, checking his back pocket for his switchblade. “Spot, you take Myron, Bart, and York to go find the Rats and see if this was actually them.”   
  
Spot nodded, his fingers absentmindedly brushing over the revolver he was concealing. “They hang out in a warehouse just on the edge of Brooklyn. They’d probably retreat to there, this must have been recent.”   
  
“Got it. Finn, Rover, Shiner - stay here and see if you can find Scoretti, contact the police. I’ll get a message to Kelly in Manhattan for them to keep a watch up there.”

 

The boys all checked that they had their knives, just in case.

 

“We’ll meet back at the basement.” Spot said, and the eight boys split up.

  
  
  


The warehouse was near the Manhattan Bridge, east of the Brooklyn Heights - the B&H Warehouse. It was empty now - the B&H company had withdrawn workers from the area, and the hulking, 6 story chunk of brick and window, all the faded reds blending into each other to make the building seem like little more than a huge slab.

 

York surveyed the building as Bart and Myron pushed open the gate for them to get through. The warehouse wasn’t really locked, but it had a large exterior fence to discourage people from going in. Of course a healthy disrespect for fences is always a good way to live.

 

Spot took out the revolver, double checking that it was loaded. If they ruined the window of Scoretti’s shop that badly, they definitely had guns. But there was no way they could afford automatic weaponry, even illegally. 

 

York and Bart eyed the revolver.

 

“I won’t use it unless I absolutely have to.” Spot said, slipping between the partially opened gate and the fence. 

 

The boys all pulled out their knives, Spot securely hiding the revolver once again, their knuckles each white from gripping the handles in anticipation. Spot nodded and Bart pushed the door open, quickly scanning for any Rats. The dirty floor of the warehouse showed the treads from multiple sets of shoes. They were definitely here.

 

The four boys walked quietly into the warehouse, dim light coming from the windows which were mostly obscured or boarded up. It was almost as if they were in an ancient tomb, the warehouse’s shelves like pillars straining up towards the ceiling, an eerie quiet about the area. The only thing to follow were the scattered footprints that would faintly reappear in patches of dust, sometimes only the faint possibility that someone had stepped in that exact place.

 

Myron scanned ahead, seeing the footprints continue towards the stairwell. He nodded in that direction, ascending as slowly and carefully as possible so the stairs wouldn’t creak and give them away.

  
  


They came to a door on the second floor where the footprints had disappeared within. Unlike the other doors which were often ajar, this door was fully closed, and the doorknob was free of dust - almost like someone had recently used it.

 

The boys stood in a sort of formation around the door, Spot standing closest. He reached out for the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.

  
  


Inside stood a single older boy, a shadow hanging over him.

 

Spot raised his knife. “Why did you ruin Scoretti’s? I happened to like that place,” he said, jokingly, but there was an underlying threat in his voice.

 

The taller boy grinned, revealing a row of teeth which had been vaguely filed into jagged, uneven points. Biter - the leader of the Rats. A fitting name. A total dick.

 

“We were making a point, Conlon.” Biter had an interesting grating to his voice thanks to his teeth, which only served to make him creepier.

 

“What was the point? Was your monte cristo burned?” Spot said, subtly stepping further into the room so Myron, Bart, and York could back him up. “Y’see waiter, I don’t like burned food, so I’m gonna shoot up the window.”

 

Biter’s grin left. “The message was to you specifically.” He regarded the other boys with a glare. “And your band of idiots.”

 

Biter withdrew a pistol, sleek and black, and deadly-looking, pointing it at Spot.

 

“It’s a warning, Conlon. Brooklyn’s changing. There’s new business here, and no room for little kids playing a game where they’re, should we say, outgunned.”

 

At Biter’s saying of the word outgunned, Myron, Bart, and York found themselves suddenly flanked by other boys in dark clothing, each with a gun - some of them with automatic rifles. Definitely not knives.

  
  


Spot saw the guns pointed at his boys, his face reddening with anger. “Who the  _ fuck _ is supplying you?”   
  
“We’ve found the Delanceys to be quite helpful in our… endeavors. We got this first batch easy. We’re just helping to stir up the shit in New York. People get angry, and they turn to better firepower.” Biter said, still holding the gun pointed directly at Spot’s chest. He whistled and the other Rats stepped back, and Biter motioned for Spot and the other boys to retreat, back towards the hall.

 

“We’re gonna walk you out of here now, and you’re gonna keep out of our damn business. Or there will be consequences.” Biter said, and another Rat barked out a short laugh.

 

“I say we shoot them now,” the unknown Rat said, training his gun on them. “Get rid of these bastards while we’re ahead, and their confused bitch.” The Rat looked at York with the last part, spitting at his shoes. The other boys all stiffened at this, even the Rats.

 

York’s grip tightened on his knife, using his fingers to turn the knife, ready to throw. He waited until the guns weren’t directly trained on them as they moved towards the stairwell slowly, and then quickly extended his arm, the knife flashing in the air and hitting directly into the forearm of the Rat that had just suggested shooting them. He jerked back, yelling, as the Brooklyn boys started to sprint through the stairwell, hearing guns firing behind them. 

 

They booked it through the maze of shelves, the sharp pinging of bullets on metal piercing the air around them, their feet carrying them forwards as fast as they humanly could.

 

“ _ Stop SHOOTING _ ,” the boys heard from behind them, the voice of one of the Rats.

 

Spot pulled out the revolver, turning as they tore around a corner, cocking the hammer, his heart pounding. He saw the Rat that York had stabbed, and the next seconds occurred in slow motion.   
  


Spot, breathing as his shaking hands held the revolver. Myron slamming the door they had entered through open.

 

The Rat grimacing as he hefted his pistol, pointing straight forwards. 

 

And then one shot rang out.

 

Not from Spot’s revolver.

 

And the next thing Spot saw was the harsh jerk of York’s body and a spray of blood.

**Author's Note:**

> And thus begins our exploration into dangerous territories. Feel free, reader, to turn back at any time. There are many stories to read, most much more pleasant than the one we have begun here. But if you continue, be warned - this is not a happy story. It will start, and end, with four sounds, encompassing all those in between.
> 
> If you are not particularly fond of gunshots, or the blazing of a fire, do not read further. If the idea of fists crashing into muscle and the thundering of an explosion, do not read any further.
> 
> But if you find yourself fancying a quiet love in a raging city, or a silent trust between the closest of friends -
> 
> Read on. And don’t stop until you have landed on solid ground once again.
> 
>  
> 
> We’ll be seeing each other soon.


End file.
